The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📖

Up The Five

Cards That He Had Laid Down Before He Dealt.

 

The Betting Began,  Hugh Nervous,  Openly Excited,  Mandel Stonily Calm,

Allen Completely At Ease. At First The Bets Were For A Dollar,  But They

Gradually Rose To Five. Mandel Threw Down His Cards.

 

"Fight It Out," He Said Morosely. "I'Ve Thrown Away Twenty-Five Bucks,

And I'Ll Be Damned If I'M Going To Throw Away Any More To See Your

Four-Flushes."

 

Allen Lifted A Pile Of Chips And Let Them Fall Lightly,  Clicking A Rapid

Staccato. "It'Ll Cost You Ten Dollars To See My Hand,  Hugh," He Said

Quietly.

 

"It'Ll Cost You Twenty If You Want To See Mine," Hugh Responded,  Tossing

The Equivalent To Thirty Dollars Into The Pot. He Watched Allen Eagerly,

But Allen'S Face Remained Quite Impassive As He Raised Hugh Another Ten.

 

The Four Boys Who Weren'T Playing Leaned Forward,  Pipes Or Cigarettes In

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Their Mouths,  Their Stomachs Pressed Against The Table,  Their Eyes

Narrowed And Excited. The Air Was A Stench Of Stale Smoke; The Silence

Between Bets Was Electric.

 

The Betting Continued,  Hugh Sure That Allen Was Bluffing,  But Allen

Never Failed To Raise Him Ten Dollars On Every Bet. Finally Hugh Had A

Hundred Dollars In The Pot And Dared Not Risk More On His Hand.

 

"I Think You'Re Bluffing,  Goddamn It," He Said,  His Voice Shrill And

Nervous. "I'Ll Call You. Show Your Stinkin' Hand."

 

"Oh,  Not So Stinkin'," Allen Replied Lightly. "I'Ve Got Four Of A Kind,

All Of 'Em Kings. Let'S See Your Three Deuces."

 

He Tossed Down His Hand,  And Hugh Slumped In His Chair At The Sight Of

The Four Kings. He Shoved The Pile Of Chips Toward Allen. "Take The Pot,

Damn You. Of All The Bastard Luck. Look!" He Slapped Down His Cards

Angrily. "A Full House,  Queens Up. Christ!" He Burst Into A Flood Of

Obscenity,  The Other Boys Listening Sympathetically,  All Except Allen

Who Was Carefully Stacking The Chips.

 

In A Few Minutes Hugh'S Anger Died. He Remembered That He Was Only About

Twenty-Five Dollars Behind And That He Had An Hour In Which To Recover

Them. His Face Became Set And Hard; His Hands Lost Their Jerky

Eagerness. He Played Carefully,  Never Daring To Enter A Big Pot,  Never

Betting For More Than His Hands Were Worth.

 

As The Bets Grew Larger,  The Room Grew Quieter. Every One Was Smoking

Constantly; The Air Was Heavy With Smoke,  And The Stench Grew More And

More Foul. Outside Of A Soft,  "I Raise You Twenty," Or,  Even,  "Fifty

Bucks If You Want To See My Hand," A Muttered Oath Or A Request To Buy

Chips,  There Was Hardly A Word Said. The Excitement Was So Intense That

It Hurt; The Expletives Smelled Of The Docks.

 

At Times There Was More Than Five Hundred Dollars In a Pot,  And Five

Times Out Of Seven When The Pot Was Big,  Allen Won It. Win Or Lose,  He

Continued Cool And Calm,  At Times Smoking A Pipe,  Other Times Puffing

Nonchalantly At A Cigarette.

 

The Acrid Smoke Cut Hugh'S Eyes; They Smarted And Pained,  But He

Continued To Light Cigarette After Cigarette,  Drawing The Smoke Deep

Into His Lungs,  Hardly Aware Of The Fact That They Hurt.

 

He Won And Lost,  Won And Lost,  But Gradually He Won Back The Twenty-Five

Dollars And A Little More. The College Clock Struck Eleven. He Knew That

He Ought To Go,  But He Wondered If He Could Quit With Honor When He Was

Ahead.

 

"I Ought To Go," He Said Hesitatingly. "I Told George When I Said That

I'D Sit In That I'D Have To Leave At Eleven. I'Ve Got An Eccy Quiz

To-Morrow That I'Ve Got To Study For."

 

"Oh,  Don'T Leave Now," One Of The Men Said Excitedly. "Why,  Hell,  Man,

The Game'S Just Getting Warm."

 

"I Know," Hugh Agreed,  "And I Hate Like Hell To Quit,  But I'Ve Really

Got To Beat It. Besides,  The Stakes Are Too Big For Me. I Can'T Afford A

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Game Like This."

 

"You Can Afford It As Well As I Can," Mandel Said Irritably. "I'M Over

Two Hundred Berries In The Hole Right Now,  And You Can Goddamn Well Bet

That I'M Not Going To Leave Until I Get Them Back."

 

"Well,  I'M A Hundred And Fifty To The Bad," Winsor Announced Miserably,

"But I'Ve Got To Go. If I Don'T Hit That Eccy,  I'M Going To Be Out Of

Luck." He Shoved Back His Chair. "I Hate Like Hell To Leave; But I

Promised Hugh That I'D Leave With Him At Eleven,  And I'Ve Got To Do It."

 

Allen Had Been Quite Indifferent When Hugh Said That He Was Leaving.

Hugh Was Obviously Small Money,  And Allen Had No Time To Waste On

Chicken-Feed,  But Winsor Was A Different Matter.

 

"You Don'T Want To Go,  George,  When You'Re In The Hole. Better Stick

Around. Maybe You'Ll Win It Back. Your Luck Can'T Be Bad All Night."

 

"You'Re Right," Said Winsor,  Stretching Mightily. "It Can'T Be Bad All

Night,  But I Can'T Hang Around All Night To Watch It Change. You'Re

Welcome To The Hundred And Fifty,  Ted,  But Some Night Soon I'M Coming

Over And Take It Away From You."

 

Allen Laughed. "Any Time You Say,  George."

 

Hugh And Winsor Settled Their Accounts,  Then Stood Up,  Aching And Weary,

Their Muscles Cramped From Three Hours Of Sitting And Nervous Tension.

They Said Brief Good Nights,  Unlocked The Door--They Heard Allen Lock It

Behind Them--And Left Their Disgruntled Friends,  Glad To Be Out Of The

Noisome Odor Of The Room.

 

"God,  What Luck!" Winsor Exclaimed As They Started Down The Hall. "I'M

Off Allen For Good. That Boy Wins Big Pots Too Regularly And Always

Loses The Little Ones. I Bet He'S A Cold-Deck Artist Or Something."

 

"He'S Something All Right," Hugh Agreed. "Cripes,  I Feel Dirty And

Stinko. I Feel As If I'D Been In a Den."

 

"You Have Been. Say,  What'S That?" They Had Almost Traversed The Length

Of The Long Hall When Winsor Stopped Suddenly,  Taking Hugh By The Arm. A

Door Was Open,  And They Could Hear Somebody Reading.

 

"What'S What?" Hugh Asked,  A Little Startled By The Suddenness Of

Winsor'S Question.

 

"Listen. That Poem,  I'Ve Heard It Somewhere Before. What Is It?"

 

Hugh Listened A Moment And Then Said: "Oh,  That'S The Poem Prof Blake

Read Us The Other Day--You Know,  'Marpessa.' It'S About The Shepherd,

_Apollo_,  And _Marpessa_. It'S Great Stuff. Listen."

 

They Remained Standing In The Deserted Hall,  The Voice Coming Clearly To

Them Through The Open Doorway. "It'S Freddy Fowler," Winsor Whispered.

"He Can Sure Read."

 

The Reading Stopped,  And They Heard Fowler Say To Some One,  Presumably

His Room-Mate: "This Is The Part That I Like Best. Get It," Then He Read

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_Idas'S_ Plea To _Marpessa_:

 

 

 

 

                "'After Such Argument What Can I Plead?

                  Or What Pale Promise Make? Yet Since It Is

                  In Women To Pity Rather Than To Aspire,

                  A Little I Will Speak. I Love Thee Then

                  Not Only For Thy Body Packed With Sweet

                  Of All This World,  That Cup Of Brimming June,

                  That Jar Of Violet Wine Set In The Air,

                  That Palest Rose Sweet In The Night Of Life;

                  Nor For That Stirring Bosom,  All Besieged

                  By Drowsing Lovers,  Or Thy Perilous Hair;

                  Nor For That Face That Might Indeed Provoke

                  Invasion Of Old Cities; No,  Nor All

                  Thy Freshness Stealing On Me Like Strange Sleep.'"

 

 

 

 

Winsor'S Hand Tightened On Hugh'S Arm,  And The Two Boys Stood Almost

Rigid Listening To The Young Voice,  Which Was Trembling With Emotion,

Rich With Passion:

 

 

 

 

                "'Not Only For This Do I Love Thee,  But

                  Because Infinity Upon Thee Broods;

                  And Thou Are Full Of Whispers And Of Shadows.

                  Thou Meanest What The Sea Has Striven To Say

                  So Long,  And Yearned Up The Cliffs To Tell;

                  Thou Art What All The Winds Have Uttered Not,

                  What The Still Night Suggesteth To The Heart.

                  Thy Voice Is Like To Music Heard Ere Birth,

                  Some Spirit Lute Touched On A Spirit Sea;

                  Thy Face Remembered Is From Other Worlds,

                  It Has Been Died For,  Though I Know Not When,

                  It Has Been Sung Of,  Though I Know Not Where.'"

 

 

 

 

"God," Winsor Whispered,  "That'S Beautiful."

 

"Hush. This Is The Best Part."

 

 

 

 

                "'It Has The Strangeness Of The Luring West,

                  And Of Sad Sea-Horizons; Beside Thee

                  I Am Aware Of Other Times And Lands,

                  Of Birth Far Back,  Of Lives In Many Stars.

                  O Beauty Lone And Like A Candle Clear

                  In This Dark Country Of The World! Thou Art

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                  My Woe,  My Early Light,  My Music Dying.'"

 

 

 

 

Hugh And Winsor Remained Silent While The Young Voice Went On Reading

_Maressa'S_ Reply,  Her Gentle Refusal Of The God And Her Proud

Acceptance,  Of The Mortal. Finally They Heard The Last Words:

 

 

 

 

                "When She Had Spoken,  Idas With One Cry

                 Held Her,  And There Was Silence; While The God

                 In anger Disappeared. Then Slowly They,

                 He Looking Downward,  And She Gazing Up,

                 Into The Evening Green Wandered Away."

 

 

 

 

When The Voice Paused,  The Poem Done,  The Two Boys Walked Slowly Down

The Hall,  Down The Steps,  And Out Into The Cool Night Air. Neither Said

A Word Until They Were Half-Way Across The Campus. Then Winsor Spoke

Softly:

 

"God! Wasn'T That Beautiful?"

 

"Yes--Beautiful." Hugh'S Voice Was Hardly More Than A Whisper.

"Beautiful.... It--It--Oh,  It Makes Me--Kinda Ashamed."

 

"Me,  Too. Poker When We Can Have That! We'Re Awful Fools,  Hugh."

 

"Yes--Awful Fools."